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Your Train Leaves Now
March never used to be a bad month. It only started in 1973. Hell, what would any average person think? If people weren't so caught up in their jobs, they might pay attention to what's going on around them. Unless you are blinded by the mere fact that it's impossible to even grasp that you are alive. At least that's what he wants you to think. It's Sunday, March 3rd, 1974. For some reason, no one else was nearly as scared as I was. The thing is, he hadn't ever visited my house, and... wait. How do I know this? Why does this year not feel like 1974 anymore? I must be going crazy. Okay, never mind, I actually feel fine. I just got this weird feeling that things aren't right somehow. But anyway, it was Tuesday, March 6th, 1973, and a news report came on at about 12:00 AM that there had been a mass homicide on a street near mine. But no one had been shot, stabbed, beaten, or anything you would expect. Their necks were cracked and their heads were charred. That had to be the most traumatizing thing I'd ever seen. When the police investigated, they found no fingerprints, and when they searched the houses they didn't find any matches or petroleum or anything like that. But when some patients were taken to the morgue and opened up, the cutters found the victims' throats charred as well, and they found an almost completely burnt match inside. Another horrifying thing was that it happened to children too. Even the youngest... man, the thought still makes me shiver. I'm not one to be the bravest or the most warrior-like; I just want to be happy and not meet my untimely demise at an early age like the poor souls I'd seen on TV. Problem is that I can't be happy when I know there is a dangerous and incredibly stealthy serial killer that could kill me in a flash. It's Monday now, and I've bought myself a pistol so that if I see this... this thing, I'll know I'm not totally helpless. I didn't take a class but I'd been to gun ranges and I'd seen how people properly handled guns. I just hope I won't get spastic and aim at the wrong target. I feel like I'm being bullied by a presence that isn't even there. I still don't know why I'm all of a sudden getting these long adrenaline rushes, or what I'm getting scared about. I mean, what are the chances this guy will show up at my house? Slim, right? Right? Okay, I've successfully made it to this hour without pissing myself into a frenzy. It's now 11:15 PM, Tuesday, March 5th, 1974, but I'm too scared straight to even think about sleeping. I get this feeling that if I sleep, I'm just gonna die and not know it until I'm in the afterlife. At least I hope there's an afterlife. After about 15 minutes, I hear my door start to creak open. I know I locked it. I did it only an hour ago. I turn around to leave the living room, and the dark figure grabbed me by my neck and shook me around vigorously. He then pulled up a gas can, threw me on the floor, and shoved the thing into my mouth. He struck a match out of nowhere and dropped it in my mouth. I watched as my body burned... wait... my body... I can hear my own thoughts... oh Lord, don't tell me it's true. Not long after, the Ticket Man looked up at me as if I weren't really there and he said in a menacing voice: "It's hard to relive your own death from the day you started wondering isn't it?" Category:Mental Illness